


cohabit

by lovelylogans



Series: the sideshire files [3]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anniversary, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Moving In Together, Recreational Drinking, Sharing a Bed, let me know if i missed any!, wyliwf!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 11:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20796227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: or: five times someone has mentioned that virgil has, effectively, moved in with patton, one time virgil notices, and what virgil does about that.





	cohabit

**Author's Note:**

> me, looking at the tentative, personal schedule i made for this series and then at the date i'm posting this: whoops. whoops. whOOPS—

virgil’s facing a dilemma.

see, he’s got a tray in his hands. and usually, he’s pretty good at carrying a tray one-handed, but this one’s different than the one he’s used to, so the way the weight distributes is strange, and he _really_ doesn’t wanna risk swapping to one handed. _but,_ if he _doesn’t_ swap to one-handed, he’s going to have to get pretty creative right now, and—oh, wait, he can get creative. that’s pretty easy.

virgil shuffles a little, to be sure he doesn’t accidentally knock anything over, and bends over slowly to press a kiss to patton’s curls, just barely visible over the covers.

“good morning,” he murmurs, and patton makes a grumbling noise, looking close to hiding under the blankets until the sun actually rises. virgil kisses him again, on the forehead, this time, and patton peeks out from under the blankets, squinting at virgil blearily.

“morning, sunshine,” virgil teases. “um—happy anniversary.”

patton visibly softens, some of the inherent “awake ugh why” grouchiness fading from his eyes. “_honey,”_ he says softly, and squirms a little so he can sit up some.

“here, let me—hold your hands out, just in case?” virgil says, and patton does, obligingly. virgil does keep his hands on the tray until he knows patton’s got it steady, though—over the past seventeen years generally, and the past year _especially_ he’s seen how clumsy a just-woken-up, pre-caffeinated patton can be.

patton settles the tray on his lap, and smiles up at virgil—even now, it’s still kind of weird to see patton without his glasses on, but virgil still loves that smile, that face, glasses or no glasses.

“you made me breakfast in bed?” patton asks, grinning.

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean—i wanted to do something since we’re both working up until dinner tonight, so, i mean—”

patton’s peering at the plate—the pancakes, the bacon, the fresh fruit, the mug of hot cocoa/coffee with a carafe for refilling beside it—and virgil keeps going, because, well.

“—so i just figured i could, you know. make you breakfast. like usual. it’s, um, i know it’s not a huge thing, i just—“

“_virgil,”_ patton says, beaming, and virgil ducks his head. “thank you.”

“it’s—well, you’re welcome,” virgil says, “but i, um, i know it’s not a lot, and—”

“i _love_ it,” patton says, and, as if to prove his point, he picks up his mug of hot cocoa/coffee and takes a sip. 

“i—well, i mean, thanks, but, um, it’s—i mean, it’s only a little outside of the ordinary, it’s not really anything special—”

“the pancakes are in the shape of _hearts_,” patton says—the same mushy, sappy tone he uses whenever he sees a really cute kitten or a baby or something.

“i—well, i mean, yeah, it’s not really hard, you just put the batter in a bottle and—”

“virge?”

“yeah?”

“i know we don’t usually kiss when one of us has got death breath,” patton says. “but i _really_ wanna kiss you right now.”

virgil considers this. he says, “take a drink of hot cocoa/coffee?”

patton, grinning, takes a big gulp, before setting the mug aside and puckering his lips in a blatant invitation for a kiss. virgil smiles at him, unable to help himself, and leans forward to press his lips against patton’s.

by now, kissing patton is familiar—something that a year, a week, and a day ago would have been a secret daydream of his, something that couldn’t have possibly been _real—_he’d always thought that he’d be pining from afar, that he’d always be waiting, that this would never actually _happen_.

and now—a year, a week, and a day later—it’s familiar, true, but it’s no less exciting, kissing patton. virgil’s always been a fan of routine, of things being _normal,_ and honestly, just the fact that kissing patton is _normal_ _now_ is still enough to make his heart race. 

patton’s lips curve up—virgil can feel it—and patton flops back against the pillows again, smiling up at him.

“i’ve never really had breakfast in bed before, you know,” patton says cheerfully, as virgil goes over to the closet, digging out one of his purple flannels from where they’re nestled between patton’s sweaters, and tossing it on over his black t-shirt. “i mean, logan did for father’s day, when he was about five or six, but he made me two slices of toast and then brought an entire jar of crofter’s and mostly used it as an excuse to try and eat the whole thing.”

“well, i’m happy i did this, then,” virgil says decisively, crosses back to the bed, and pushes some of patton’s sleep-mussed hair out of his face. he kisses him on the forehead again. “do you need anything else?”

“nope,” patton says, popping the p.

“all right,” virgil says. “i’m going to work, then. i know you’ve got that meeting with the people from that writer convention thing, so it’ll probably be sookie’s for lunch, but—”

“dinner,” patton says, smiling. 

“meet back at home at six, yeah?” virgil says absently, straightening his collar.

patton’s smile grows even bigger—virgil isn’t really sure _why,_ but he sure isn’t complaining.

“yeah,” patton says, soft, and almost _shy, _and virgil can’t resist going back for another kiss before he goes to work.

“looking forward to it,” he murmurs against patton’s lips, and patton splays his hand on virgil’s cheek, moving back enough so that virgil can see his eyes—bright, excited, _happy._

“me too.”

* * *

“which one?”

virgil and logan both glance up—virgil, from tying his shoes, logan, from his latest copies of _the courant_ and _the franklin_ that he’s marking up with a red pen—and virgil’s jaw drops, just a little.

patton looks _spectacular. _he’s in a tailored black suit, in a crisp white shirt, with an open waistcoat, as he’s holding up two ties for inspection—a tie, in that sky blue color that’s always been his favorite, and a navy-and-pink patterned bowtie.

“patton,” virgil begins, voice soft.

“_do not_ get mushy around me, it’s bad enough that i had to deal with him going all lovesick over breakfast,” logan says without looking up, and patton makes a face at logan. virgil presses his lips together to hide his smile.

there’s a stretch of silence. logan sighs loudly, as if truly impressing upon them how much of his time they’re taking up, and patton helpfully clears his throat.

“so?” he says, and logan sighs again. he gives the options a cursory glance. 

“tie.”

patton grins, setting the bowtie on the table before he flips up his collar and slides the tie into place, carefully measuring the ends before he starts to tie it. 

“okay, so,” patton says, distracted slightly by his tie. virgil’s only a little disappointed that he’s talking while he does, because sometimes when patton ties a tie he pokes his tongue out a little in concentration, and it’s very adorable. “i put a magnet over a twenty on the fridge, and i want evidence that you spent it on food, and that you took a break to _eat_ that food. i know finals are coming up, but that doesn’t mean you have to power through dinner, you can take forty-five minutes to let your brain breathe a little. um, takeout menus are in the drawer, we’ll be home arooound... virgil, what time are we gonna be back?”

“i dunno, nine, maybe?” virgil guesses. “ten at latest?”

“right, yeah,” patton says, straightening the tie and tweaking the knot, one last time. “do you want anything from the restaurant, too? we can bring home dessert.”

“sure,” logan says absently, attention already reabsorbed by the papers—his english books and a stack of post-its looking like the next in line for his studying focus.

“remember to take that break,” patton says, semi-sternly, before making sure that he’s got his wallet and the keys. 

“right,” logan says, frowning thoughtfully at a page before digging out his battered, post-it-noted, scrawled-over copy of the ap style guide.

“_logan,_ what did i say?” patton says.

“remember to take a break,” logan grumbles.

“good,” patton says, and crosses the room to kiss logan on the head. logan makes a noise of complaint. “we’ll be back later.”

“no sneak coffee,” virgil adds, as patton crosses the room. virgil automatically offers patton his arm, and patton, grinning, takes it. “and try to get one vegetable with dinner, okay?”

logan hums and waves a hand at them dismissively. virgil takes that as their cue to go—patton darts ahead to open the door for virgil with a little flourish.

“bye, logan!” patton calls. “eight!”

“sixteen,” floats in from the living room, and patton shuts the door, locking it behind them, before taking virgil’s arm again.

"he’s gonna study through dinner, isn’t he?” patton says.

"probably,” virgil says. “i mean, we can text him a reminder, or something.”

patton sighs a little, before opening the car door for virgil, too. virgil slides into the driver’s seat, immediately turning the car on—the sooner they can get the heat going, the better—and patton hops into the passenger’s seat, slamming the car door and shivering exaggeratedly.

“it’s not as snowy as last winter,” patton says, “but jeez, is it _cold.”_

“i know,” virgil agrees. “here, gimme your hands.”

"i’ll _hand_ ‘em over,” patton jokes, and virgil laughs.

patton and virgil swap off on the whole ‘who-has-cold-appendages-because-of-our-terrible-circulation’ thing. on any given night, one of them, if not both of them, will attempt to press their icy feet into each other’s calves to try and warm up, or slip frigid fingers under shirts. it gets even worse in the winter—the pair of them always wrapped up in blankets and snuggled all night, like a burrito that would leave at least one of them sweaty and overheated at some point—so this is routine by now, too.

virgil wraps up patton’s hands in both of his, and patton sighs softly, wiggling his fingers just a little. patton’s hands aren’t the coldest they’ve ever been, but they sure aren’t a normal temperature, either—and virgil will happily let patton leech his body heat if it makes him feel more comfortable.

“so,” virgil says. “how was work?”

patton makes a face. “i got called in for a ‘can-i-speak-to-your-manager’ today.”

virgil groans sympathetically—ugh, the _worst_. the people of sideshire tend to recognize the patterns of pricing and accept them (well, except for taylor) but the main problem was when _visitors_ came to town, and since it was so close to the holidays, it meant more and more talk-to-the-manager moments.

“something about a discount, i guess?” patton says, and the corner of his mouth turns down. “even though we’d already offered him the one we’ve got, and he kept going on and on and _on_ about price matching, or something—”

“even though you don’t _do_ that?”

“_right,”_ patton says emphatically. “i mean, as far as the _only inn in town_ goes, and even then, we’re pretty cheap considering the relative area, it was just. ugh. ya know?”

“i know,” virgil says, and squeezes his hands. “sorry about that.”

“oh, it turned out okay,” patton says. “eventually i asked him to pull up the price he _wanted_ us to match and proved my point, but it was just... _ugh._ seeing his face when he realized our price was lower in the first place was pretty funny, though. enough to make up for it. he left without a word after that._”_

“good,” virgil murmurs, and kisses the tips of patton’s fingers. “warmed up?”

“uh-huh,” patton says, and grins at him. “thanks.”

virgil smiles back, regretfully releases patton’s hands, and starts to drive.

patton keeps talking as they drive, and park, and walk out of the car and into the restaurant, about the lull between the two influxes of holiday visitors, and about sookie, and michel. 

it’s a fancy, richard-and-emily-recommended place. when he and patton had mentioned it was part of their plans in the coming couple of weeks to go out to dinner for their anniversary, emily and richard had both fallen over themselves trying to recommend somewhere, even though they hadn’t really asked for a place to go. virgil figures it’s a good sign that they want virgil and patton’s anniversary to go well, so they’ve taken their advice, and made a reservation, and promised to tell emily and richard what they thought of the place the next time they’re all at dinner.

virgil’s still chuckling to himself a little, about a story about sookie going moony-eyed over some good persimmons, when they walk into the restaurant, and he immediately cuts himself off.

well, he isn’t really sure what he’d _expected_ when this place is endorsed by the elder sanders’. it’s a place that’s low-lit, each table offered a smidgen more illumination by a candle atop the pristine white tablecloths. the customers are all in finery that makes virgil a bit grateful that he’d decided to bust out his suit for this. waiters sweep along at a coordinated speed that virgil, practiced in the profession, envies a little bit. it’s all a bit eerily quiet under the live piano music.

“hi,” patton says to the host, polite and soft, “reservation for sanders?”

he checks the guestbook, nods, and says, “table or two?”

“yes,” and the host gathers up menus in his arms.

“right this way, gentlemen.”

they sit at the table. patton shifts, just a little bit, and they both thank the waiter when he drops off menus.

menus that are, um.... well. well, virgil’s in the _food industry,_ so it’s not like he’s the world’s _biggest_ expert on food, but he knows a pretty fair amount, really.

what he does not know, however, is french. after a few minutes, during which a patton-selected (virgil wouldn’t be shocked if it was also, somehow, an emily-selected) bottle of wine arrives at the table, he doesn’t magically absorb the language, either.

he leans across the table, and, in a whisper, asks, “what the fuck is _poitevin_?”

patton giggles, attracting Looks from the rest of the near-silent diners around them, and immediately quiets down. virgil glowers in their direction.

“no idea,” patton whispers, and consults the menu. “i mean, it’s paired with a baguette, right? baguettes are good.”

“you went to fancy rich people school, do you know french?” virgil asks in the same whisper.

“not a bit,” patton says in a cheerful undertone.

virgil grimaces, just a little. “great. how many dirty looks am i gonna get if i get out my phone and try to translate this?”

“if you don’t, i will,” patton says, and so they dig out their phones together.

virgil pulls a face when he manages to translate the first item on the menu.

“you’ll hate the, um... _rouille de seiche?_ it’s got squid.”

“oh, ick, thanks for the heads up,” patton murmurs back. “um, the _ratatouille’s_ gotta be good, right? disney wouldn’t lie to us.”

virgil snorts, and then hunches his shoulders when he sees someone swivel in his direction, as if to ask who would dare make such an undignified noise in a place of such high repute. 

patton scowls fiercely in their direction, until they turn away from their table, and then looks around the restaurant and lowers his voice.

“virge?”

“yeah?”

“i’ll leave enough money on the table plus a tip if you can figure out the fastest and least noticeable way for us to escape right now.”

virgil grins, a little. “enough money?”

“well, even if this place full of people who seem to hate the sound of happiness, the wine’s pretty good,” patton admits, and virgil’s grin widens.

“yeah, all right,” he says. “we’ll finish off these glasses and while we’re doing that—” he leans forward to whisper. “i’ll figure out a way for us ditch.”

patton beams at him.

a few minutes spent observing the waiters, looking covertly around the room, and two hastily-gulped glasses of wine later, patton dug out his wallet and casually set enough money to cover the wine on his plate, visible to their waiter. virgil stands, buttoning his jacket, and patton snatches the bottle of wine, hiding it, before blinking up at virgil with big, innocent eyes, as if the very obvious shape of a wine bottle wasn’t bulging from under his jacket.

virgil’s lip twitches, and patton’s grin grows bigger, which makes _virgil_ smile, and patton grabs virgil’s hand with his free one and virgil tugs him along and they both start giggling before they’re even halfway close to the door that virgil’s spied in the corner, virgil snickering and pulling patton along behind him as they basically end up giving up any semblance of being proper, rigid adults they’ve got and make a run for it.

they securely lock themselves in the car, patton wheezing out “drive drive drive!” between his laughs as he fumblingly stashes the wine somewhere safe. virgil, snickering all the while, manages it—they end up a block away before he pulls into a mostly empty parking lot for some pharmacy.

"oh, my god, i can’t believe we did that,” patton says, and bursts into giggles. “oh, my god, _imelda morton_ was there, she’s gonna tattle to mom _so fast,_ and—”

patton can’t keep talking from all the sniggering, and virgil laughs with him. 

_“disney wouldn’t lie to us!_” virgil mimicks patton, who shrieks with delight even as he swats teasingly at virgil’s arm.

“_you went to fancy rich people school, do you know french?”_ patton teases right back. “you know _full well_ i’m a high school dropout!”

“oh my god, i can’t believe we actually thought somewhere with a name neither of us could really pronounce would be somewhere we’d _actually like,”_ virgil says. 

patton flops back against his seat, still grinning, and turns his head to look at virgil, eyes twinkling and smiling brightly and curls tousled up, even though he’d tried to get them in order in anticipation of going somewhere fancy, and virgil—

virgil catches patton’s hand, and presses his lips to it, smiling. god, he’s so _stupidly_ in love, he’s so thankful, he’s so—

“what’s that face?” patton asks softly.

“m’happy, is all,” virgil mumbles against patton’s hand. patton wiggles his fingers, and virgil lets go of it. patton’s palm rests against his cheek, and virgil leans into it—it feels like his heart will explode from how absurdly besotted he is. “i’m just—i’m just really happy.”

patton’s face softens, and he smiles at virgil—a gentle, soft, smile that’s so emotionally expressive that it kind of makes virgil want to cry, a little—and leans forward a little. the distant lights of the street lamps and the glow of the dashboard play prettily off the curves of his face, catching a curl here, lighting up his eyes there. he’s so beautiful, so _wonderful, _and virgil is so lucky.

“me too,” patton whispers. “i’m happy, too. and i’m happy that _you’re_ happy, and i’m happy that _we’re_ happy, and can i just kiss you now?”

virgil nods so energetically that his hair flops into his eyes, and patton giggles—virgil loves his laugh, he loves it—before patton pushes his hair back into place, and leans forward.

patton tastes like wine, tart and fruity, and his lips are warm and soft and a little bit wet, like he’d just snuck a swig of wine, or licked his lips. patton exhales softly, and virgil’s lips part easily. he shivers, just slightly, just a little, when patton’s tongue makes a very welcome appearance.

“love you,” patton sighs, “love you, love you—”

“love you too,” virgil murmurs, and kisses him once more, almost chaste, before he pulls back. even as close as they are, and how dark their surroundings are, he can still see that patton pouts, just a little.

“so,” virgil says. “now that we’ve run away from our main plan from our anniversary, do we have any other ideas?”

“other than making out in the back of the car like teenagers?” patton quips.

“i’ve never made out with someone in the back of a car,” virgil admits.

“you _what,”_ patton says, incredulous. “that’s, like, a formative romantic experience!”

“i just—!” virgil says. “i never really—i mean, i didn’t really _date_ much when i was a teenager, so by the time i started, you know, _dating-_dating, i had my own apartment, and—”

“unbelievable,” patton says. “next you’re going to tell me that you’ve never played spin-the-bottle.”

“nope,” virgil says.

“_what?!”_ patton demands.

“sorry my life isn’t a corny teen movie,” virgil says.

“but you had a briefly rebellious phase, i know you did!” patton says. “you _never_ made out in the back of the car?! never drunkenly played spin the bottle?!”

“_my_ teenage rebellious phase was nothing like _your_ teenage rebellious phase,” virgil says. “we, you know. spray painted walls and listened to loud emo music and threw rocks at cars, stuff like that.”

“well, i know the _later_ half of your teenage years weren’t like mine,” patton jokes. “no baby, after all.”

“nah, no kid,” virgil says. “other than the two i’ve somehow managed to adopt.”

patton beams at him, before he claps his hands, once. “okay, so, new plan. i see there’s a pizza place over there. we’ll go and get a carryout order, plus two plastic glasses, and park at the car somewhere close to home so we won’t be drinking and driving, and then we eat and drink our fancy french wine and i introduce you to the rite of passage that _is_ making out in the back of a car. sound good?”

honestly, patton could have said anything—_we’re going to find the nearest river and jump in, even though it’s below freezing,_ or _we’re going to go back and deep-clean the whole house, actually—_and virgil would have been absolutely down to do it, as long as he was with patton.

“sounds perfect,” virgil says honestly.

so they go in and order a pizza for them to split, and another pizza, a dozen cupcakes (”we said we’d bring back stuff for logan!” patton says, as if he thinks virgil doesn’t know full well that patton will probably eat the majority of the cupcakes) and they lift a couple plastic cups that they hand out for water, for their wine. patton makes some small-talk with the cashier, who now knows that it’s their anniversary, and patton now knows that he’s a nursing student who works nights to save up for his degree.

“you two might have a lot of leftovers,” the cashier cautions, as virgil wins out the rock-paper-scissors battle of who pays this time. “these come pretty big, so i hope you’ve cleared out your fridge.”

“we’ll make enough space for it,” virgil says, handing over his card.

“he’s good at fridge management,” patton adds. virgil grins, as if this is an incredibly high comment that patton’s paid him—honestly, from his tone, it seems like it is.

“well, have a nice meal, and have a nice anniversary,” the cashier says, handing over their various boxes. “and get home safe!”

“thanks, we will!” patton says brightly.

they do—they park the car in one of the parking lots for one of sideshire’s parks that’s easily walking distance from the house. virgil leaves on the car enough to keep the heat on, and patton turns on the radio at a low level, on a station that’s playing classic christmas music in anticipation for the holiday, so virgil tries to negotiate the best way to balance the pizza box on the center console to operate as a table for their slices and their plastic cups of wine as bing crosby croons about being home for christmas in the background.

at last, virgil manages it, and patton proffers the wine bottle with a flourish.

“and now,” virgil says, equally dramatic, “we partake in our recommended pairing of—” he squints at the label, “_domaine de cristia_ grenache with a _lovely_ pepperoni pizza—or margherita, i don’t know which one you’re trying first—just watch how the flavor of the wine develops when introduced to the plastic—”

patton rolls his eyes, smiling sweetly, and says “bad jokes are _my_ thing” as he passes over virgil’s plastic cup of wine before pouring his own.

“your jokes aren’t _bad,”_ virgil says. “they’re...”

“like a _pun_-ishment?” patton quips.

“i take it back,” virgil says, chuckling despite himself. “_that_ _one_ was bad.”

“cheers, then,” patton says, and smiles wider. “to a whole year of you being romantic with me, even with all my bad jokes. happy anniversary.”

“and here’s to many more,” virgil murmurs, and taps the rim of his cup against patton’s, before he takes a sip. “happy anniversary.”

patton beams at him. 

(when virgil and patton sneak back into the house, ties a little askew from the time patton’s spent initiating virgil in the arts of spin the bottle and making out in the backseat of a car, after having finished the whole bottle of their fancy wine, the pair of them shushing each other and giggling, logan rolls his eyes from where he sits in his room at the top of the stairs. he’ll go down for his dessert and a sneak cup of coffee later.)

(no, he’s not smiling and a little sappy and just generally happy that his <strike>parents</strike> dad and virgil are happy. he _isn’t_.)

(well. maybe he is, a little. but he isn’t about to _tell_ anyone.)

* * *

"hey, man, merry christmas,” christopher says, and goes in for a hug. virgil, a little confused, just kind of weathers it. they’ve met _once._ but then again, this man _was_ once patton’s best friend. maybe he’s a hugger, too.

this is also just kind of a weird situation. since patton is stuck at work, and logan is busy at the _courant_ mostly out of stubbornness, it means virgil’s the only person who’s available to pick christopher up at the airport and drive him back to sideshire in anticipation of the christmas celebration. so. hugs it is, virgil guesses. why not.

christopher draws back, with a few strong thumps to virgil’s back, and virgil coughs a little.

“merry christmas,” virgil says. “uh, how was your flight?”

“bit bumpy, but all right,” he says. “how’re our boys?”

virgil smiles, a little, unable to help himself. “logan’s driving rudy crazy at the _courant_ now that he’s free of Finals Prep Time, and patton’s—well, patton’s patton. he’s, um. he’s great.”

“good, good,” christopher says, and points. “that your car?”

“yeah, can i, um—d’you have any luggage?”

christopher shakes his head, jerks his thumb toward his backpack. “traveling light,” he quips.

“right, then,” virgil says, and they both go to the car. virgil mentally runs through the lists he’s prepared of Okay conversation topics, Maybe Let’s Not Go There conversation topics, and I’m Desperately Curious But Under Threat Of Death I Will Not Ask You About It conversation topics. 

the last topic, admittedly, has mostly to do with young, rebellious patton, which he’s heard a few stories about and feels like he half wants to know more, half knows he’ll want to go and give patton a really long hug after hearing anything about it, so.

“so, how’s california?” is virgil’s first relatively safe conversational softball.

“sunny,” christopher says. “dry. you know, the usual.”

some more silence.

“how’d you mean, finals prep time?” christopher says.

“oh, you know,” virgil says. “smart kid like logan, he always goes a bit, um, study-crazy at the end of the semester. wants to keep his grades up, that kind of thing.”

“‘course he will,” christopher says breezily. “he’ll have his pick of colleges, just you wait.”

“i agree, but that’s a conversational landmine, just so you know,” virgil says.

“yeah?”

“logan’s trying to pick what he wants to do, and getting all his applications in order even though it’s _months_ before he has to apply,” virgil says. “and patton’s happy for him, he is, but he’s also gearing up for the emotions that’ll happen when logan leaves, and emily and richard—“

“oh, god, say no more,” christopher grimaces. “if they’re anything like they were back then—let me guess, they’re pushing yale all the way?”

“they’re pushing yale all the way,” virgil confirms. “so. bring up college at your own risk.”

“noted,” christopher says, making a little ticking motion in the air with his finger like he’s actually writing it down, which reminds virgil, strangely, of logan. 

“anyway,” virgil says. “he’s pretty sure he’s done well, and he’s, you know, logan. so.”

christopher nods. virgil moves on to the next topic.

“got any plans while you’re here, other than the sanders christmas extravaganza?” virgil says.

christopher hesitates, just for a moment, but it’s long enough that something in virgil’s brain seizes on it. he’s about to ask, before christopher says, “this is your first sanders family christmas, isn’t it?”

virgil lets it go. “yeah,” virgil says. “i mean, we did new year’s and we split thanksgiving between my family and his, and we did patton’s birthday there and something for logan’s, but—first christmas.”

“so you know how the holiday thing goes there,” christopher says, and he sounds distracted. “cool. good. picked out a present?”

“logan and patton did.”

“probably the best choice,” christopher says. “last year, they got me baccarat candlesticks. i mean, sure, they’re fancy, but what am i gonna do with _golden candlesticks,_ you know?”

“yeah,” virgil says, and thinks about patton’s kitschy decor and how fancy things would clash with its coziness and—oh, _god,_ they’re not gonna try and get _him_ something fancy, are they? is he expected to get them an individual gift? he’ll have to ask patton about it. if he’s supposed to get them something, what on _earth_ should he get—?!

“what did you end up doing with them?” virgil asks, instead of thinking about all _that._

“traded ‘em,” christopher admits. “which i can get away with because they’re probably never going to come out to visit me in california. you two have got to worry about emily and richard coming to visit, so you’ve got less of a chance of getting away with that.”

“true,” virgil says grudgingly. even though the majority of the time, they meet at the elder sanders’ house, they still come to sideshire _sometimes,_ so they can’t really risk selling it or something. maybe they could put it somewhere out of the way? table in the front hall, maybe. evident enough that they saw it when they walked into the house, but out of sight the rest of the time. 

“so,” virgil says, doubling back, “any advice on how to handle a very sanders christmas?”

* * *

no advice could have really prepared him for this.

granted, virgil’s been coming over to sanders dinners on and off for a year now—once or twice a month, usually, with work and everything—but every time he still feels... well, he just feels out of _place,_ that’s all. the most fancy dressing-up stuff virgil would do when he was growing up was when his family would go to church on christmas and easter, and never really dressed up much outside that. his family was firmly a pajamas-early-morning-christmas kind of family—they’d all thunder down the stairs as soon as his parents had checked that santa had come, and make cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and spend the rest of the day making dinner and playing with their toys and listening to christmas music and just having general family time.

true, the sanders household in sideshire was very much a pajamas-christmas kind of household. logan was too old to really run around in his pajamas and jump on their bed to wake them up at five in the morning, for which virgil was grateful, but they still got up early and exchanged presents and drank coffee and ate cinnamon rolls. ms. prince and roman had even stopped by sometime in the afternoon, between celebrating christmas themselves and the showing of _the nutcracker_ that happens on christmas day. christopher and ms. prince had kind of seemed like they were at an eternal impasse, conversation-wise, but it went mostly okay. virgil’s still kind of in shock that patton’s allowed to call her ‘isadora,’ now that their sons are dating.

the _elder_ sanders household, on the other hand...

“your tie is fine,” patton scolds him gently as they get out of the car. virgil grimaces, and drops his hands from where he’d been adjusting it for the five millionth time.

“you’re _sure_ i shouldn’t have gotten them something?” virgil checks.

“positive,” patton says firmly. "take a deep breath, okay?”

virgil does as he says. granted, they’re here a bit earlier than normal, because virgil ended up volunteering to make dinner, somehow, so he has the safe haven of the kitchen to duck into if he needs space.

however, this _also_ means they’ll be here for longer than normal. so.

christopher volunteers to carry presents, so virgil offers patton his arm and they fall into step behind logan and chris, approaching their imposing front door.

emily has started therapy, in a move that was, frankly, shocking to virgil. she and patton fight less, which is good in virgil’s book. 

however, emily wouldn’t be _emily_ if she wasn’t so... well. _emily._

“logan, christopher!” emily says warmly, and logan tolerates her hug with his usual stiffness. “merry christmas, come in, come in... hello, patton. virgil.”

“merry christmas, mom,” patton says, accepting her hug with enthusiasm.

“emily,” virgil says. “merry christmas.”

emily doesn’t move to hug him, and he doesn’t move to hug her. they have a mutual understanding, really.

“ah, virgil, christopher!” richard says merrily. “logan, patton, hello—come in, come in, the both of you, christopher, would you like a martini, old boy...?”

the conversation fades as the rest of them file into the living room, and virgil hangs back.

“i’ll come find you soon, yeah?” patton says, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek.

“get them out of the awkward small talk discussion zone for me,” virgil says in an undertone, tilting his cheek a little so patton has better access. patton kisses it, and squeezes his arm, and heads for the door—which his mother is holding open.

“virgil,” emily says, then, “you know where the kitchen is.”

“i do,” virgil says, and she gives him a little nod before stepping more fully into the living room, and virgil goes to the kitchen.

it’s a well-stocked kitchen, with top-of-the-line appliances and cookware. virgil’s been in kitchens for as long as he can remember, so it’s not as overwhelming as the rest of the house can be, sometimes, but it’s still, well. it’s still _aggressively_ elder-sanders-ian, in that upper-society, best-of-everything way, not quite like his utilitarian, cook-for-the-masses kitchen in the diner, or the cozy confines of patton’s, or even the familiarity of the kitchen in the house he’d grown up in or the apartment.

but, well. it’s a kitchen. and virgil knows his way around a kitchen, no matter how high-class. even if it’s williams sonoma and alessi and le creuset, a spatula’s a spatula, and a pot’s a pot, and a pan’s a pan. the knives are sharp, the ingredients fresh, and the recipes long-since memorized, so virgil settles into a rhythm of letting dough rise and preheating ovens and chopping up vegetables and cracking eggs and making sure the stove is warm and—

a soft couple knocks at the door, and virgil looks up, fully expecting patton, or maybe logan, but—

“virgil, old boy,” richard says. “would you like some punch?”

“oh,” virgil says, a little startled, and wipes his hands on the dish towel he’s slung over his shoulder to accept the cut-crystal glass. “um, sure. thank you, richard.”

“it smells delightful,” richard says. “what are we having?”

virgil quickly swallows the tentative sip he’d taken—some kind of cherry soda, some champagne, maybe, the aftertaste leaving a bite that probably meant vodka—and gestures.

“well, i thought,” he began, and cleared his throat. “it’s—well, emily didn’t recommend anything in particular, so i figured i may as well—” virgil shakes himself and gets himself on the right track. “it’s tradition, my family’s, i mean, to have breakfast for dinner, on christmas.”

“oh, how endearing!” 

_endearing._ well, that’s just about a seal of approval, virgil guesses. 

“so,” virgil says. “biscuits, there. eggs and bacon are about to be made. i was going to ask if there were any particular votes on how many waffles would be wanted, i noticed you had an iron, but—”

“as many as you’d think best would work nicely, i’m sure,” richard says. “how’s the diner, these days?”

richard, since his declaration of his blessing a year ago, has dropped in on both the inn and the diner a handful of times since. each time, he seems to delight in the small town charm of it in a way that was only a little snobbish—the way he’d exclaimed over a slice of mud pie was a prime example, things like “what a funny idea!” and “is this very... _popular?”_ and “ah, the _kids,_ of course, of course”—but in a mostly well-meaning kind of way. 

virgil hopes so, anyway.

but he talks about the diner with richard as he mixes up the batter, things like menu changes and insurance policies and really, mostly the parts of business that _would_ be boring to almost anyone else. well. mostly.

until, that is, richard starts asking about how to properly make an egg over-easy, and then, somehow, virgil is sipping at his punch as he carefully coaches richard through the art of how to fry an egg.

“...right, then, jiggle the pan a little to be sure it isn’t sticking,” virgil’s saying, as the kitchen door opens once again and a familiar face peeks in.

“like this?—oh, this is looking a lot better than the last one, isn’t it?” richard says, entirely too cheered.

“it is,” virgil says, conscious that the scent of burnt egg is still hovering in the air.

"have you gotten grandpa to try cooking?” logan asks, wandering into the kitchen and sitting at the counter.

“more like i’ve barged into the process,” richard says. “should i plate it now?”

“yep,” virgil says, and examines it. well, it’s an egg, certainly. maybe not quite as cohesive as an over-easy egg that _virgil_ might make, but... not a _bad_ egg.

“i’m afraid i’ve never really cooked before,” richard says thoughtfully. “it was always a bit of a passing interest, i suppose, but that was always more about food itself than it was the cooking. perhaps i should try it.”

“it’s a skill everyone needs to learn at some point,” virgil says with a shrug. 

“do you cook often, at home?” richard asks. “or do you bring things back from the diner?”

it’s logan who answers. “usually, he’s still working at the diner when it’s dinnertime, but if he isn’t, he’ll usually cook.”

"i get to sneak you more vegetables that way,” virgil says, only a little bit joking. 

gradually, people bleed into the kitchen, bit by bit—patton’s next, and he tries to sneak chocolate chips into the waffle batter, as if virgil won’t prepare him his own chocolate-chip waffle—and then christopher, ferrying refills for everyone, and at last emily deigns to enter her own kitchen with a slightly world-weary sigh as she opens the door, only to come to a stop at the sight before her.

“emily!” richard says excitedly. “i’m frying bacon!”

the sight before her is her husband, son, grandson, grandson’s father, and son’s partner all working in the kitchen, each with their own job—richard with the bacon, logan with the eggs, patton keeping an eye on the timer for the waffle iron, christopher with the mimosas he’d decided were _absolutely necessary_ for breakfast for dinner—and virgil overseeing it all, trying his best to make sure no one would burn themselves or the food.

“delightful,” emily says, a smidge disdainfully. 

“dinner should be ready soon,” virgil says, disregarding her tone. 

emily sighs. then, utterly surprising virgil, she rolls up her sleeves, and says, “i’ll set the table, shall i?”

the breakfast-for-dinner thing goes over surprisingly well, and virgil isn’t sure if he should thank his assistants’ good cooking or the whole “good will of christmas” thing, or maybe emily’s had her own three ghosts of christmas past, present, and future visit and she’s about to pull a scrooge, but virgil isn’t about to ask which option it is.

they’re at the last part of the evening—christmas presents, then coffee, and then he and patton and logan will be heading back to the house as christopher stays at emily and richard’s. apparently they’re all going to some mutual friend’s party tomorrow, or something. christopher seems a little twitchy about it, whenever he or patton ask him for details—virgil would be too, really. he’s so far managed to escape the realm of sanders parties, but it’s only a matter of time.

emily and richard get books from logan, bottles of californian wine from chirstopher, and home-knitted scarves, a fancy bracelet, and a new set of cufflinks from patton and virgil. 

logan gets books, books, and more books, in addition to the stuff he’s gotten from virgil and patton at home this morning—_the journalist and the murderer, _the latest ap style guide, _the new new journalism, the corpse had a familiar face,_ a biography of agatha christie, a couple young adult series that are the latest on his reading list—plus a fancy pen, all the better to report with, virgil guesses.

patton gets new knitting needles, some high-quality yarn, ties, a couple books, and—

“what’s this?” patton says, unearthing three stuffed animals—a quokka, a capybara, and—virgil squints at the tag—a fennec fox.

“it’s through [the world wildlife fund](https://gifts.worldwildlife.org/gift-center/gifts/Species-Adoptions.aspx?sc=AWY1200WCGA1&gclid=EAIaIQobChMI5PHGo97x5AIVBZJbCh0TqQ7mEAAYASAAEgK88vD_BwE),” emily says briskly. “we made donations—in your name, of course—and this was an option for it. so there’s a thank you note and a photo of the animal you helped adopt in there somewhere.” 

“i hope we correctly selected the animals,” richard says. “i remember you liked those, when you were young.”

patton looks up, startled but smiling.

“thank you,” he says softly, touched. virgil reaches over automatically and squeezes his hand. patton squeezes back. “i—you chose exactly right.”

virgil has a feeling patton would have said that with _any_ animal they could’ve picked for him, but he can’t deny that those are good options, as far as patton’s concerned—all of them are small, cuddly, and cute, and all of them are prey animals that need protection.

“and for you, virgil,” richard says, and virgil braces himself with his best _thank you, it’s a great gift_ smile that he might have practiced in the mirror. it starts off pretty good.

virgil gets a couple cookbooks, some new measuring cups, a very nice new set of knives. some fall a little flat, like, virgil doesn’t think that he and patton are going to have much use for a cheeseboard, but who knows, but some, like the immersion blender that he’s been considering for a while, make up for it.

“i’d guess it’s been a while since there was some new cookware in that house,” emily says archly.

“i’ve mostly been bringing over stuff from mine, yeah,” virgil says neutrally, but he’s really too focused on the soups he can start to make now that he’s got an immersion blender in his home kitchen.

“and one more thing,” richard says, and hands over a small, relatively flat box. emily looks slightly sour, like she’s sucked on a lemon. she huffs, a little, crossing her legs primly and taking a drink, which bodes well for... whatever this is. 

virgil takes the box, and unwraps it, revealing, well. another box—leather, well-made. 

“what is it?” logan asks after virgil’s staring at it for a few moments, setting aside his ap style guide.

“it’s a pocket watch,” virgil says, not quite sure how to react to this. it’s a pretty neat looking pocket watch, actually—all silver, roman numerals, the gears exposed, steampunk-adjacent but not so steampunk that emily and richard would disapprove of it—but, well. virgil wears t-shirts and hoodies and jeans on a daily basis. so he isn’t sure exactly _when_ he’s going to wear a—

“_dad,”_ patton says softly, and virgil glances over at him, and back at the watch, and back at patton. 

richard explains, almost kindly, “emily’s father got me a pocket watch, the first christmas we spent together as a family.”

virgil’s mouth goes dry, and he looks back at the watch.

“oh,” he says, and swallows hard. “it’s—it’s lovely. thank you.”

he fumbles with the catch, for a few moments, closing it again, before he runs his fingers along the sleek, silvery chain, the latch.

patton kisses him on the cheek, and rests his cheek briefly against his shoulder, like an excuse to stare at the watch. 

_the first christmas we spent together as a family_ rings in his ears. virgil leans his head against patton’s head, feeling his hair against his cheek, before virgil. clears his throat and looks up at the two elder sanders’.

“seriously,” he says, quiet and serious. “thank you.”

emily lets out a put-upon sigh, but she smiles flatly all the same. 

“you’re welcome,” she says. 

and that’s close enough to christmas peace and good will between men, women, and people outside of the gender spectrum for virgil.

* * *

“two dozen?”

“absolutely not.”

“fine, _one_ dozen.”

“_roman,”_ virgil says, on the edge of a sigh.

roman grins at him, huge and unapologetic. 

“you are out of your mind if you think you can negotiate your way into me giving you a _dozen_ donuts for breakfast,” virgil informs him. “c’mon, pick something on the menu that’s got some kind of nutritional value, and i _might_ give you a donut on the side.”

“_fiiiiine,”_ roman sighs. “waffles?”

“i said _nutritional value,”_ virgil says.

“cheat! meal!” roman says, slamming his fists against the counter to emphasize each word. 

“roman—”

“virgil, i have been eating _nothing_ but chicken and quinoa and vegetables,” roman informs him. “i’m _dying_ of a lack of sugar, _dying,_ let me have this. waffles and a donut and hot cocoa/coffee.”

“your mom’s going to kill me,” virgil says. 

“she _knows_ i’m here for a cheat meal, she isn’t expecting me to eat something healthy,” roman says brightly, because he knows when he’s won. 

“fine,” virgil says. “_fine._ what kind of donut do you want, and any toppings on the waffle?”

“chocolate icing for the donut, and chocolate chip waffles,” roman says. “i’m going all-out here.”

“i hope you know how much pain you cause me on a daily basis, i seriously do,” virgil informs him.

roman laughs after him as virgil goes to put in his order, and gets him a mug of hot cocoa/coffee and his donut.

“oh!” roman says, when he gets back. “i nearly forgot—” and he starts digging through his bag.

“if it’s some kind of new shirt in your latest attempt for a makeover, i don’t want it,” virgil says, hovering enough of a distance away that roman would have to lunge to try and shove a shirt into his arms. 

roman rolls his eyes. “_please,”_ he scoffs. “you _wish_ i would bless you with my sense of style—oh, here it is!”

he pulls a book out of his backpack, and sets it on the counter.

"could you give this to logan? he left it at the apartment last night. i’d give it to him, except i have to get back to the studio right after this—mom wants to rearrange the barres or something, so i’m going to be hauling around furniture all day. it’s probably her way of sneaking a strength workout in during a rest day, honestly,” he muses, and virgil picks up the book, flipping it to examine the spine.

“_siddhartha?”_ he says, trying to sound it out. 

“yeah, you’d have to ask him about it,” roman says. “some kind of religious studies unit for his english class, i guess? anyway, you can give it to him when you go home today.”

roman takes a bite of his donut.

“if i’m going to patton’s today, you mean,” virgil corrects absently, and roman blinks at him.

“um,” roman says, “you mean, if you’re going _home_ today.”

“i—no?” virgil says. “i mean, i—i live here. and i go over to patton’s a lot, sure, but i don’t _live_ there, that’s not—” 

but even as he’s saying it, his brain is tossing up images as if to specifically contradict him. his and patton’s socks jumbled together in the drawer. the christmas cards from his siblings on the fridge. virgil’s spot on the couch, if they’re all talking, his spot in the armchair if they’re all having quiet time. his default chair at the dinner table. his hairbrush in the bathroom. his lotion in the nightstand cabinet because the weather’s so cold, which means his hands get as dry as anything. his cookbooks, which have somehow nestled their way into the empty nooks and crannies in patton’s kitchen that can fit them even though he can hardly remember bringing them over. making coffee for logan and patton in the morning, enough caffeine to provide them with one or maybe two cups each, before he starts transitioning into half-caf. some of the little decorative things that his siblings have given him from the various cities they’ve lived in over the years. virgil’s handwriting dominating the grocery list. logan and virgil and patton splitting up chores. virgil’s flannels and patton’s sweaters in the closet, all hanging side-by-side.

everything he’s carted over there, over the past year—bit by bit, piece by piece. item by item. things he’d think he’d need if he was staying over, and then, well, never bringing them _back._ never returning things to his apartment. and that begged a question—

when was the last time he’d slept in his apartment???

“oh my god,” virgil says. he couldn’t identify his own tone if he had been recording this conversation and could play it back three hundred times. 

“what?” roman says.

“oh, my god, i’m _living with patton,”_ virgil realizes, with a long, noisy exhale, and he sucks in another breath. “we’re _living together.”_

roman stared at him, slightly slackjawed, before he sets aside the donut.

“_please_ don’t tell me you _just now_ realized this.”

“shut up,” virgil says, his face heating up.

“you _just now,”_ roman says, slightly gleefully, “like, _just _now_._ you _just now_ realized that you and patton are_—”_

_“shut up!”_ virgil hisses, conscious of the other diners starting to eavesdrop, and roman snickers, holding up his hands in surrender, and virgil figures the only way he can really salvage this is if he goes to hide in the kitchen and has his crisis there.

so he does.

* * *

"well, it’s nice to see you, virgil, but it’s been a while since i’ve seen you _here_,” emile picani says, adjusting his glasses and clicking his pen.

virgil clears his throat, wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. “yeah. i, uh—yeah, i guess.”

“so,” emile says, big doe eyes wide and sympathetic. “what’s up, doc?”

“it’s, um,” virgil says, and clears his throat. “it’s been pointed out to me recently that i’ve... essentially... moved in with patton and logan.”

“is that good?” emile says, and virgil chews at his lip.

“i—i mean, i _think_ so,” virgil says. “i _want_ it to be, anyway. i mean, i’m—i’m _excited_ about patton, i love him, logan’s—well, logan’s basically my kid too—and i definitely figured moving in would be a _someday,_ but when i realized i basically _had_ already, i—well, i kinda... i’m not the best at change, so i kinda freaked out, a little.”

to be precise, virgil had mentioned that he’d probably stay at his apartment just to be there to open the diner and maybe make an ingredient run beforehand, and patton had pouted a little but agreed and hadn’t seemed too upset, or cotton on to the whole “virgil’s-taking-some-space-because-he’s-anxious-about-the-future” thing that virgil was trying to do, which almost made it _worse,_ and then virgil couldn’t sleep because the bed was too big and too cold and too uncomfortable and he spent most of the night pacing and trying to untangle all the thoughts in his head and hadn’t quite succeeded, so. an appointment with emile it was.

which he explains, and emile hums thoughtfully, tapping his pen on his notepad.

“so, what’s your goal for this session?” emile says. “or sessions, if you like, other than untangling your thoughts.”

virgil considers it, and says, “the last time a change to our relationship happened, i didn’t... well, i didn’t really handle it very well. i ended up basically shutting everyone out for nearly a week so that i could figure myself out. and i mean, i’d like—i _want_ to live with patton. i was happy when i was basically living with patton, so i don’t know why the change being pointed out to me made me freak out, and i don’t want—i don’t want to shut him out again. so. to get... to get accustomed to the idea, maybe, and to—to communicate a bit more clearly about making it official, i guess, and then maybe to figure out how to deal with becoming a landlord or whatever else i might do with the apartment. those are my goals.”

emile smiles, nods, and clicks his pen. “let’s see what i can do to help you achieve that, then.”

* * *

“how much salsa, again?”

“maybe just bring me the jar?” virgil suggests, from where he’s transporting chicken breasts from the pan to a bowl. “i’ll eyeball it.”

logan nods, and fetches the salsa from the fridge, before he leans his hip against the counter, tilting his head to survey the way that virgil’s begun shredding the chicken.

it’s a quiet evening at home for the pair of them—patton’s staying late at work—so virgil’s decided to make enchiladas for dinner, which he hasn’t made in a while. 

virgil takes in a breath, remembering one of emile’s suggestions, and clears his throat, keeping his stare fixed on the chicken. “can i ask you something?”

“sure,” logan says.

virgil swallows, and says, casually, “i was wondering what you thought about—um. well, you’re a smart kid, i’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that i’ve been... here... more. so i was wondering if you were, um. comfortable. with me—” _say it, virgil, just say it, _“living here.”

the reaction isn’t what virgil’s expecting. logan, without breaking facial expression (he rarely does, virgil doesn’t know why he’d expected that) digs around in his pocket and pulls out his phone, putting it on speaker.

“_hello, my love, the light of my life,”_ roman says pleasantly, and logan smiles a little, a sort of teenage-puppy-love expression that he’d ardently deny if patton or virgil teased him about it later.

“you’re on speaker and you owe me lucy’s,” logan says smugly.

“_what?! dammit!”_ roman says.

“he what,” virgil says.

“i told you so,” logan says.

“_yeah, yeah, yeah,”_ roman grumbles. “_god, virgil, i won out the **last** time we bet on your love life—”_

“you—" virgil begins, before he shakes himself and decides to leave any parental lecturing about gambling for later, and maybe to patton and ms. prince.

_“you just had to ruin my streak,”_ roman continues in a grumble. “_fine, then. if i **have** to. lucy’s date tomorrow after you’re done with **the franklin**?_”

“we’ll text about it,” logan informs him.

“_okay. love you, even if you are at an unfair advantage!”_

“love you too,” logan says, hangs up, and tells whatever expression on virgil’s face, “shut up.”

“didn’t say anything,” virgil says. 

“anyway,” logan says. “i have been slowly transitioning from phrases like ‘i’ll see you back at the house’ to ‘when we’re at home’ for _months now,_ i can’t believe you _just now noticed.”_

“you—_what_,” virgil says blankly.

“i’ve been slowly bringing over your cookbooks to see if you’d ever notice, but you never really did—”

“that’s how they got here?” virgil says, thrown off.

"—and i’ve been bringing your possessions more and more to the forefront, too, look,” logan says, going into the living room and holding up—

“is that my throw blanket?”

“it is,” logan says, setting it back on the couch. “and the photo of your family on the mantle, and the christmas cards from your siblings on the fridge, and the plant you and dad picked out when you went shopping last week.”

“you—you put those all there?” virgil says. “i thought patton did.”

logan shrugs, non-commital, and suddenly something clicks for virgil. sometimes, non-verbal methods are the way that logan communicates he cares, which virgil gets—he’s been making the kid eat healthy for as long as he was capable of it, after all. 

“so,” virgil says slowly, because he needs verbal assent, here. “you’re okay with it?”

logan stares at him, a look that combines the essence of _i can’t believe you’re so dense sometimes_ and fondness. his lip quirks up, soft, and a little like he wasn’t intending to smile at all.

“yeah,” logan says, a little softer than his usual brisk, abrasive tone, but virgil’s fully willing to let this emotional moment happen without commenting on that. “yeah. i’m okay with it.”

virgil clears his throat from where it’s suddenly a little clogged up, and messes up his hair, and, fleetingly, logan grins at him with the same kind of smile he’d used when he was six and lost his first tooth in the diner, when he was nine and won in the school-wide spelling bee, when he was sixteen and he and patton told him they’d gotten together.

“good,” virgil says. if his voice a bit rougher than usual, logan has the strategic grace to not mention it. 

* * *

“so,” roman says, “you wouldn’t be my neighbor anymore, i guess.”

virgil shrugs. “diner’s still there, and you’re over at the house often enough.”

“you are,” logan confirms. 

listen, virgil isn’t sure how he got signed up for the “carpool-the-kids-to-their-date” thing, but he somehow has, so now he’s driving them to a roller rink because roman won out on deciding where date night would be after the milkshakes at lucy’s they’re both sipping on. 

“have you talked to dad about it?” logan says.

virgil tries not to squirm. “not yet. i will tomorrow, probably.”

logan scowls, visible enough in the rearview mirror. “while i’m working a weekend shift at _the_ _franklin_.”

“got it in one,” virgil says. “are you still sure that you’re going to janus' after?”

“i could totally still kill him for you,” roman adds.

“we have an understanding,” logan says, giving roman a Look. “an alliance, so to speak.”

“you can say that he’s your friend now, it’s okay,” virgil prompts, and feels someone kick at the back of his seat.

“someone who _initiated_ a _duel_ is not a _friend!”_ roman says, aghast. 

“_louise _is the one who did that, it’s just,” logan says, and then, “well, you _know._ he’s..._”_

logan trails off. roman scowls out of the window, and logan pauses, before he leans over enough to kiss roman on the cheek. 

he mumbles something that sounds like “you’re still my favorite,” and virgil tries not to comment, he really does, but—

“no making out in the back of my car.”

“we _weren’t!”_ roman squawks. “god, virgil, you’re not my _dad—”_

“thank god—“

“—you’re so _embarrassing,_ maybe it’s good that you’re moving,” roman huffs, flopping back against the seat.

“you’re just bitter you lost the bet,” logan informs him.

“yeah, we’re gonna talk about the gambling thing,” virgil says. “you know that can be addictive, right, even if it just starts with lucy’s?”

instead of answering, roman says thoughtfully, “when you move, can i have that _nightmare before christmas_ hill scene cross-stitch you’ve got framed?”

“_absolutely not,”_ virgil says.

"i’ll steal it for you,” logan says.

“or i can steal it while i’m helping move out boxes,” roman says.

“none of this has distracted me from the gambling lecture i’m about to give you both,” virgil says, and both boys groan.

* * *

for someone so invested in sleeping for as long as he possibly can, virgil really shouldn’t be so surprised that patton’s bed is so comfortable, but it _is._ so much more comfortable than his own, back in his apartment.

patton’s sheets are soft and they always smell clean. he’s got a soft, fuzzy blanket, and a quilt, and then a thick, quilt-stitched duvet to top it all off, decorated in soft blues and whites. patton’s mattress is soft, but not _too_ soft, and his pillows are at the exact perfect degree of fluffiness.

of course, being in patton’s bed _with patton_ might be what makes it the best, in virgil’s mind, but he’s pretty biased.

virgil lets out a soft, content sigh as he adjusts himself, just a little—his head on patton’s chest, patton’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and with his lips pressed against his hair, virgil’s hand on patton’s chest. virgil absentmindedly follows nonsense paths with his fingertips, feeling the old, white scar from patton’s top surgery under his fingertips.

he’s content. he’s _happy._ he really, truly is.

so he shouldn’t be so _anxious_ right now. they’ve been together for a little over a year, now, and things have been going well, they’ve been going _great,_ it’s just—well. he supposes it’s a step that most people get nervous about _regardless._ but he shouldn’t be nervous _right now,_ when patton’s humming, soft and tuneless, and it’s late at night, a lazy saturday morning that’s turned into a lazy saturday _day_ and then night, and the day’s been great. it’s been amazing.

he’s talked to logan about it. he’s talked to roman about it. he’s talked to _emile_ about it, for god’s sakes. he just needs to... well. talk to _patton_ about it.

patton’s lips move, pressing against his head again, and he squeezes virgil a little closer.

“i can hear you thinking, darling,” patton murmurs. “penny for your thoughts?”

virgil hesitates. well, now’s as good a time as any, he supposes. he adjusts himself, so that he’s leaning on one arm, hand still on patton’s chest, but now he can look at patton’s face. 

“so, um,” virgil says, and swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “i just—i’m gonna say something, and you don’t have to say anything right now, it’s not an immediate _yes or no,_ but just—just so you know. okay?”

patton blinks at him—it’s strange, even now, to see him without his glasses on—and nods.

“okay,” he says apprehensively. 

virgil adds, “i mean, it isn’t—it isn’t _bad,_ or anything, just something you should know.”

patton relaxes minutely. he runs his hand up and down virgil’s bare back, and virgil shivers, just a little. 

“okay,” patton repeats, soft and soothing. “okay, honey, go ahead.”

virgil holds his breath, before he says tentatively, “i was thinking about renting out the apartment.”

virgil does own the diner—which means he owns the apartment _above_ the diner, too, which is where he’s been living for the past seventeen years, he’d moved in once his parents had moved out of sideshire and sold the house he’d grown up in. it used to just be an office, but after he’d taken over the diner he’d made it into a living space. but now, well... 

patton’s smiling—a slow, soft smile that’s spreading across his face.

“or—or, um, making it an office plus a break room or something, i’m not sure how i’d go about renting out something, i guess i’d technically be a landlord, but—”

“love,” patton says softly. “you wanna move in?”

virgil ducks his head, cheeks burning.

“you don’t have to answer right now,” he mumbles. “i just—you can think about it, and i know i’m kinda inviting myself in, here, but—”

and very suddenly, virgil is on his back, and patton’s lips are on his, and virgil can’t really think of _anything else_ right now, and when patton’s lips part from his with a truly embarrassing smacking noise, patton is absolutely beaming.

“i don’t have to think about it at all,” he declares. 

* * *

“_did you stuff this thing with bricks,”_ roman wheezes as he carts down yet another box from virgil’s apartment. virgil isn’t really a material person, he thinks, but it turns out that given seventeen or so years he can accumulate a lot of stuff. who knew?

“no, the bricks are the next load,” virgil says, accepting the box and settling it in the trunk of his car, surveying it. “how much is left?”

“next one should be the last one,” logan reports, handing over his own box for virgil to place in his car.

“perfect,” virgil says. “i think i might drive this to patton’s after that, then, it’s nearly full. we can deal with furniture and stuff later today, or maybe next week.”

“if it gets me a break,” roman huffs, and stomps back up the stairs—virgil watches him go, and then logan, before he digs out his phone and sends a text.

**virgil:** one more load and then i’m gonna be dropping off the last of boxes soon

**patton:** okay, sounds good!!!  
**patton:** i’m so excited for you to come home, darling <3 <3 <3

virgil grins a bit stupidly down at his phone. he’s excited to go home, too.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [lovelylogans!](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/)


End file.
